Hannibal Lecter, M.D.
by Christopher Morgan
Summary: -Part 1 up- We take a look at Lecter's past, through the harrowing halls of his memory palace, following his path to incarceration, while also tracking the detective who dogs Lecter. R&R. (As with all of my fanfics, it's likely to be long)
1. Front Page

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Standard Disclaimer: I do not own any copyright with the fictional characters of Will Graham, Jack Crawford, Hannibal Lecter, Benjamin Raspail, or James Gumb, these are all copyright of the majestic Thomas Harris. However, I do claim the right to wield my artistic license over these said characters and create a story with them moving to my elaborate orchestrations.

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Synopsis: This is before Clarice Starling and before Dr Lecter's unfortunate incarceration, back when he was a top psychologist and serial killer. We follow the brilliant doctor in his insane world of self-destruction, cannibalism and recipe making, while also tracing the fateful steps of then Special Agent Will Graham, charting his fall into darkness and his capturing of the doctor by ingenious deduction.


	2. Prologue: Memory Palace & Dreams of Misc...

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Hannibal Lecter, M.D.

Prologue: Memory Palace & Dreams of Mischa

Let us enter the Memory Palace of Dr Hannibal Lecter, he will not notice our entry since he is busy in the soundproof room that is the Hall of Appreciating Arts. If we are timely and careful, we might be able to leave before he even senses our presence.

We can pass through the grand hall, a half-completed mosaic lines the floor that we walk on, it is only half-complete because the palace is in a state of flux - as it always is, always changing, always moving rooms and changing hallways - which, though appearing random, has a strict definition in its seemingly chaotic order.

At the moment, the East wing of the memory palace - set in a deeply gothic style with sweeping spires in grey elaborate framework and goblins peering from the corners of hallways; befitting its true nature - is growing by the moment, especially as Dr Lecter's mind grows more and more angry, as it does now in the Hall of Appreciating Arts. The East wing has always existed here, albeit on far smaller a scale but it always existed in some sense, from the very birth of the palace in his mind. But perhaps it was only a window before, looking out onto the palace grounds. Still, it was always there and slowly, over the years, corridors and floors appeared, however the doors remained locked, even to the good doctor, but now his key is starting to open locks and he is beginning to discover new and terrible things in his mind.

Tread lightly now, for Dr Lecter is almost ready to leave the Hall, which is on the opposite wing from us in this vast palace, yet that is close enough for us to worry. There is nowhere in this palace farther away than a few strides through the nearest door. Everywhere is linked here, much like the neural pathways of the brain - firing neutrons along synapses and propagating signals that are readily symbolised by a man rushing through corridors and doorways as the doctor suddenly does now, leaving the Hall of Appreciating Arts in a fit of fury and passing through the room of eternal abominations. It is here that his memories of stillborn births and grotesque human deformities from his time in medical school were manifested, and it was in the dark dungeons of his school many years ago where he first discovered that his taste could stretch to…the unusual.

The dungeon of this palace is the sickly underbelly of sheer insanity itself and it is a place that we cannot ever hope to probe. Indeed, the good doctor himself never ventures there consciously and the key is always kept safe in his breast pocket. Only when falling into the darkness of psychosis does the doctor find himself there, in the pitch black, slime-covered dungeon with things that have no names, and he always leaves immediately, for the things there would consume him entirely.

We hide in the shadow of the grand staircase as Dr Lecter storms across the grand hall, he is spitting out balls of fire like a dragon disturbed from its sleep. It appears that he has been angered by an artist. Already, we can hear more grindings from the East wing as it continues to grow, its walls spreading out further, encompassing other rooms in its nightmarish grandeur.

He has passed and we are now free to move upstairs, the doctor is engaged in the filing room, busy organising for tomorrow's patients. We move around the sharply inclining cyclical staircase, passing the famous Salvador Dali painting of Christ on the cross along the way, Dr Lecter's ironic memento to his own persecution. A memory palace is not without its own cruel sense of humour.

We move into the gothic halls, its grey stone walls occasionally brightened by a vibrant splash of red like a gout of blood. Deeply crimson velvet curtains hang on either side of nightmarish portraits - this is a dark place, one fraught with Dr Lecter's own horrible dreams, much too horrible to describe - but we are also seeing the thoughts of his patients, and our great doctor's desire to harm them. He has the desire to harm those who are an affliction upon the polite and non-discerning world, the free-range rude in other words.

To our immediate right we find a portrait of Martin Tellingsworth, before and after. In the before portrait we are shown a strange façade, a person with the lips of a woman, hair of a woman, yet the beard and eyes of a man, someone trying to be something they are not. That is what angers Dr Lecter about this man, his desire to shed that which he has, his irrefutable need to lose all that defines him. After…well, that is not for me to describe, someone else shall do that and it pains me too much…I can feel Martin's agony as should you, still vivid and screaming from the portrait, reaching out to us.

Dr Lecter enters our hallway and we are easily caught, however, the good doctor does not choose to see us. He is obviously aware of our presence and respectfully, we must withdraw. Although we shall pause for the briefest of moments to observe the creature in his own habitat, to see how he marks his territory and keeps it safe from harm.

Much fascination is placed on the contents of a memory palace, while not many venture to guess what lies beyond the doors of such a magnificent structure. In Dr Lecter's palace there are a great many rooms , the insides of which are only for himself, but there is a world beyond these doors, outside of the palace.

We watch as Dr Hannibal Lecter stands by the huge window at the end of the east wing, this window seems to grow larger as he stares out, and we are quickly blinded by a bright whiteness as snow stretches off to the infinite horizon. If we were to be a fly on the wall, far enough above the good doctor for him to miss - engrossed as he is with the happenings outside - we would see what he sees:

A pair of rough-looking, unshaven woodsmen with desperate eyes sunken in blueish sockets are traipsing through the snow purposefully, their mouths in thin, resolute lines. They are dressed in shabby clothes, which are practically coming apart at the seams. One carries a dangerously sharp axe and another carries a set of keys, they move towards a large rickety barn, speed entering their step now before they throw the wide door open. Suddenly we can see children, dozens of them, cowering in a corner like terrified lambs. The woodsmen select one of the young and a small boy protests their decision, only to be struck to the ground like a rag doll. Although this is an incarnation of the doctor it does not affect him and he does not flinch in memory of pain, for it is outside of his palace, banished from his emotions forever. The axe-wielding man passes his weapon to the other and takes the child away. The girl is dragged, kicking and screaming - quite healthily despite the fact that she is nearly starved to death - to a block of wood in sight of the barn. The other man then closes the door, blocking out the frightened wails of the children - who now sound like bleating lambs - and quickly moves to the block, then raises the rusty chipped axe high above his head.

The doctor catches our intent gazes, the bright glint of red in his maroon eyes is enough warning for us to withdraw, our privileges are spent, we leave speedily, past the horrific portraits and the wailing gargoyles spitting blood, spiralling down the staircase and across the mosaic, breaking out from the confines of the palace and into the bright whiteness of escape…

Hannibal Lecter M.D. stops by a vacant spot in his east wing corridor, there is a spot for a new portrait, the 'before' slot has been filled. In its place is a black and white sketch of a man in a dinner suit, seated, blowing with an uneducated tone into a flute, a bronze plaque below reads: 'Benjamin Raspail: a musician, actually worse, a tone-deaf musician who pretends to play well.' He smiles and clicks his tongue, the sound echoing through his memory palace. "Be seeing you soon."


	3. Part 1 : The Flat Flute & The Perfect Re...

I'd just like to add here for the sake of saving confusion, that I have fictionalised a character called Dr Fell, who works with Dr Lecter at his psychiatry clinic. Don't ask me why, I just thought it would be a nice tie in with Hannibal. But you can ignore it for the most part ;¬), CM. 

  


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**_Hannibal Lecter, M.D._**

**_Part 1: The Flat Flute & The Perfect Recipe_**

  
  


The audience clapped and Dr Lecter joined them listlessly, he felt as though he had been cheated. Great hype had reached his ears from patients and colleagues regarding the flute section of the Baltimore Philharmonic Orchestra and their praise alone had persuaded him to attend the last night of their Gala shows, only to find a tone-deaf flutist among their number. 

"Weren't they magnificent, Dr Lecter?" said his partner for the evening, Hilary, a pretty young blonde girl - who his co-worker Dr Fell had introduced at a social gathering some time ago. Her teeth sparkled like diamonds under the show lights and her soft, dainty neck was just aching to be kissed…or bitten, but however delicately she may have applied her fragrance for the evening, the crass bouquet of _Anais Anais_ invaded his nostrils and lingered there for some time. It was the second sour note of the evening, still, her curves made up for her poor taste in _parfum_. 

"Not quite magnificent, my dear Hilary, but competent. Although I would like to have a word in the ear of one of their flute players, he was terribly off-tune." Lecter intoned with no small amount of displeasure. Hilary simply smiled, letting his air of arrogance glide over her perfectly aerodynamic head. 

"Shall we have a drink in the VIP lounge?" She asked, standing and wrapping a blue-purple satin veil around her small shoulders. 

Dr Lecter was staring at the column of her spine as she rose, it bumped out prominently for a moment and he could tell exactly where to slide a knife and completely disable her, leaving her like a puppet whose strings were cut. His attention was then drawn to her nipples, pert and proud underneath the thin black veneer over her body, she wasn't wearing a brazier; this pleased the carnal instincts of the doctor and he nodded in answer to her question. "Of course, but I warn you, nothing touches my tongue but champagne...and naked flesh." He grinned, rousing a racuous laugh from her. 

They moved into the VIP lounge that was filled with social climbers, wannabes and then the genuinely wealthy - such places were always showcases of pretension and self-importance, people whose heads were not filled up enough with hot air had the perfect opportunity to gas it on up. Dr Lecter hated it with every fibre in his being, it clashed perilously with his personality and he privately mused at how he had been able to maintain his own pretence for so long, how he had been able to suppress the natural desire to destroy the pompous mannequins that surrounded him. He now felt like a tiger among the deer, prowling through the shady grasslands unnoticed, the content and happy little Bambis lapped water by the poolside, all the time unaware of their impending doom. 

Hilary wore a grin plastered across her face like a whore's cheap make up, she was as artificial as silicone breasts, which he wondered if she had, since her more than ample bosom did not seem to move as generous assets should, rather staying fixed rigidly in place like traffic cones. Still, Hannibal wanted to know how she tasted…how good her flesh would feel against the coarseness of his tongue…how she would moan in earthly pleasure as he would taste the fruits of her body…Yes, Dr Lecter certainly still had that urge, making his tight Armani slacks feel like the iron-clad pairs of chastity pants they give to nuns in convents. 

Finally, members of the orchestra began to filter discreetly into the room and Dr Lecter watched them pass in their dinner suits and evening gowns. Hilary moved off to mingle with women that she knew from a local health club - if there was one thing about women in Baltimore, they knew every patron in their closest gymnasium - leaving him to his own devices. 

Those dark devices suddenly started to awaken as the memory palace created the sketch of Benjamin Raspail, although it did not yet know his name. As he moved towards the flutist, cutting through the crowd like an edged razor through paper, the doctor could sense a dark cloud over the head of this one. _Perhaps there would be an easy way to trap this subject_, the doctor pondered idly. He decided to let his victim do the talking, perhaps his manners would not be as off in conversational terms as they were in matters of musical appreciation. 

"Good evening," Lecter said in his distinctive metallic rasp, stretching out his strongly-veined, well shaped hand. "My name is Hannibal Lecter, I'm a psychiatrist." 

"Oh, I know who you are, I was told that you would be here tonight. I'm Benjamin Raspail, second flute," the man replied with a knowing smile, there was a glint in his steely blue gazethat the doctor didn't quite understand. "You see, I tried to refer my partner to you, I heard that you were the best in your particular field." His voice was light, airy-fairy almost, perhaps the man was queer. 

"Your partner?" 

Although it was barely distinguishable, the pretending-musician dropped his voice to a murmer when he answered then picked it up again, it was a subconscious action through years of socialising and being on guard. "James Gumb is my partner." 

The image of Gumb's profile suddenly flashed in Lecter's mind and he understood the glint in the man's eye; Raspail had been checking him out, he was homosexual and the doctor was in prime shape. 

"Ah…" He said, studying the flutist. "I do remember that name and if I recall correctly, he refused to meet me. I was quite disappointed, he seemed to be an interesting case." 

"Yes," Raspail replied looking somewhat embarrassed. He hooked his wavy blonde hair behind both ears in a fluid movement while throwing a glance around him, making sure that no one was listening - it was a shame that he wasn't so considerate when it came to his playing. "He is terribly stubborn about such things, but I would sincerely like to speak to you about him, doctor. I am quite concerned." 

He'd had a feeling it was going to be easy. "Of course," Dr Lecter replied and pulled out a small, red leather-bound diary from his inside pocket with a gold pen tucked inside. "I'm free when you're free, my doors are always open." Hannibal gave him a wink and the trap was set. 

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The taxi crawled to a halt outside of the luxury block of apartments. Hilary turned to Dr Lecter and surprised him with an unexpected kiss on the lips, a quick tongue filled suggestion of the fun that _could_ come if he were inclined. However, tonight was not a night for such pleasures or sport, no matter what fire burned in his crotch. 

"Would you like to come up, for a…night-cap, Dr Lecter?" She placed her hand on his left thigh, dangerously close to the bulging part of his trousers. In a more blunt fashion she added in a husky whisper: "I have a big bed and chain get-up, we could fuck all night." 

It didn't surprise him to hear such language, of course, he had heard every cursing utterance under the sun, but Dr Fell in his practice always had a taste for cruder women, in every manner of being. He smiled, taking her hand and planting a kiss on her soft skin, coming away the taste of honeysuckle and vanilla handcream, and even perhaps the sour imaginary tang of a hand that has held too many sweating manhoods in its time. 

"Some other time, perhaps….Hilary. Although it is a tempting offer." 

Hilary's hand roamed further up-leg, gripping his erect member for a moment before releasing. "As you wish, as always, the doctor knows best," and with that parting comment she was gone, her sexy form slinking away into the darkness. 

The cab jerked back into gear again and a hoarse laugh from the driver distracted Dr Lecter's thoughts on his recent purchase of the revised edition of 'The Joy of Cooking' - there was a sweetbread recipe that had appealed to him particularly while he was leafing through it earlier. 

"She seemed like a hot patootie," hooted the grizzled man, his beady eyes sparkled with perverse glee. "I'd like to get my leg over that one." 

"Would you indeed?" He replied, his tone utterly lacking in amusement and sharpened by the edge of a not-so-hidden threat, like a submarine just breaching the surface of the water just off the port bow of its target. Dr Lecter was not giving this man a tip, but perhaps a sharp point, in the form of his golden pen being rammed into the driver's ocular cavity. "Perhaps if you kept your eyes on the road rather than on my fiancée, you would ensure that you don't have a nasty accident. Do you know the fatality rate of taxi drivers in the greater Baltimore area?" 

The driver frowned and opened his mouth to give a rebuttal, like he would usually do in business hours, but there was something in his passenger's eyes that gave him cause to snap his mouth shut, and the rest of the five-minute journey seemed to last for an eternity under that piercing maroon stare. 

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Back in his apartment, Dr Lecter sat naked on a piano stool playing Goldberg's Variations from memory. The Joy of Eating rested in the music stand, held open at the page containing the delectable sweetbread recipe and on the opposite page was an interesting version of a Ragu, using the meat of a deer as opposed to the norm. It seemed that the good doctor would be holding a dinner party soon, and he had the perfect recipe. 

"Mmmm, yummy." Hannibal said to no one in particular, but the sound echoed through his memory palace for many to hear and even the shabby-clothed men outside with Mischa could take note: the doctor was home. 


End file.
